Peachy
by Sepik
Summary: Carson is helped in making a decision from a very unlikely person. T for mild cursing. One Shot Tag to Misbegotten.


Peachy

Disclaimer: _fan_fiction

Author's Note: Well, this just popped into my head after watching Misbegotten. I have a feeling there are going to be lots of tags to the episode about Carson's interrogation. Just like all the tags about how Rodney was made to talk in The Storm. :sigh: So many people like to see whumping in the actual show... it's scary. But anyways! This is a one shot, and technically a tag. I've never written in present first person. If you hate it, say so. Heck, you can flame it if you want. Just give me at least _one_ suggestion. And I REALLY want reviews. Good or bad. By the way, this is in Carson's POV.

.oO0Oo.

I am doing... _peachy_.

I'm sitting here on an uncomfortable plastic chair, trying to ignore the TV monitors on the other side of the room, and just what they mean. For some reason the only thing I'm thinking of is this random movie I saw years ago... And you know what? The main character was right. Airports are a great place to observe people.

In the movie, Bartlebee went on this rant about how everyone was just happy to see each other at an airport. Past differences were put aside... The thrill of the moment of seeing the person again made faults disappear. I'm still trying to figure out how.

Of course, now you can't meet your friend of loved one at the gate anymore. Too risky, at least in America. I don't know about other countries... Right now I just simply have to get used to Earth again.

Two weeks.

That's what I told Elizabeth. I just needed two weeks of a vacation, and then I'd be fine. In two weeks time, the Daedalus will make its constant round trip back to Earth. Then I'll board it, and return. At least, that's what I told her. That I'd be back.

Now I'm really not so sure.

If anyone noticed the fact that I packed up all my belongings from my room, they didn't say anything. I didn't tell anyone good bye. In fact, I only told Elizabeth that I was leaving. I haven't decided if I'm going to come back or not. I just really don't know.

I told Michael about the bomb. I actually told him. I couldn't help it. Everyone else seemed to understand that perfectly, especially Sheppard. Everyone connected the dots before I even told them. There was a bomb... I was the only one left... it somehow magically didn't blow them all to hell. What other explanation was there? My mission report only confirmed it.

Surprisingly, no one was angry. Even Rodney understood. He even went as far as to mention when the storm hit... and Koyla got him to talk. I'm fairly certain that's the first time he's opened up to anyone about that. In a way, I feel touched. Everyone was very understanding. Caring, even. We're all friends. Really, we're more than that. Companions? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I knew I had to get away from what I've now adopted as my 'home'. At the very least, temporarily. It had been three days since all the wraith/human prisoners died... and I hadn't even slept once. I've pulled all nighters before, but I was reaching my limit. The problem was, I just couldn't sleep. I still can't. I even almost gave a patient a medicine they were allergic to. I'm still out of it, but I know when enough is enough.

So when I came over to Elizabeth's office just before the next check in with Earth, and asked for some time off, she didn't even hesitate to say yes. I already had my black bag slung over my shoulder. She took one look at me and knew I really needed to just... be away. Maybe it was my haggard appearance, the dark circles under my eyes, and the fact that my sweater was on backwards that convinced her so quickly. But before I knew it, I had walked through the gate and was back at the SGC.

And, of course, the first thing I did after the traditional physical was go and get drunk. I got an airman to drive me to a hotel, I dropped my bag by the foot of the cheap bed in my room, and headed down to a poor excuse of a pub. Americans know nothing of beer... Radek's home made alcohol was stronger. But after at least ten drinks, I was drunk enough to finally forget.

That was the problem, that is the problem. Forgetting. I never can, no matter what I do.

The Pegasus galaxy has changed me. Made me reconsider everything I always thought I stood for. It all started with Perna... and the damn Hoffs with their ridiculous insistence of 'beating' the Wraith. "Victory at all costs." I feel sick to even think about it.

And then... it was her face that haunted me. The way she didn't even blame me. I couldn't sleep. Instead I would drive myself to the brink of exhaustion, and then usually pass out. I got over it, eventually. But it was her, and the mistake on Hoff... That's what kept me going. That's what made my strive so hard to create the damned retro virus.

And then... there's Ellia. Another 'mistake', if you will. Me screwing around with genetics, and murdering an innocent child. Yes, a Wraith child, but she was so young! She had killed, but she didn't have much of a choice in the matter. It was either that, or die. And then I forced her into becoming a real monster.

Everyone always tells me to not blame myself. They insist it wasn't my fault. But I keep on drifting to one thought. One single thought that haunts me no matter what I do, no matter how hard to try and forget.

Am I another Mengele?

If I ever voiced that thought to anyone I know, I'm already sure of the reaction. They'd think I'm crazy for thinking such a thing. But are we really so different? He did brutal experiments on people. I did the same thing. He didn't consider his subjects people. In all honesty, neither do I.

What I did to the Wraith wasn't morally right. There's not a single question about it. I erased their memories and turned them into something they're not. I kept telling myself being Wraith was a disease, one that I can cure. Now I'm not so sure. Michael was right.

Michael... God, I don't even have any hate towards him. I actually pity him. Teyla told me what he said. That if I erased his memory again, it would be like death. And that he'd rather die outright. I justified what I did, but it isn't justifiable. It's wrong. No matter what anyone says. No matter how many people support me in my research... Hell, no matter how many _governments_ support what I'm trying to do...

I just can't do this anymore. It's _wrong_.

I glance back at the TV monitor on the other side of the room. My view is obscured for a moment by a family of five walking by me, but then its open again. The monitor hasn't changed.

Flight 327 - New York, USA to Glasgow, Scotland - 7 Hour Delay

I sigh and stand up. I'm already stiff from sitting in the plane ride from Colorado Springs to New York. I'd almost missed my flight, but luckily the wake up call was reliable. My hangover hasn't gone away, and I'm still not sure if I lost hours or gained hours thanks to the time difference. I really don't care. All I know is that there is no way I'm going anywhere any time soon.

Airports are always cold. It's like some international rule I alone must not have heard about. But right now, I'm actually wearing American-style blue jeans along with a dark red, poofy sweater that I'm sure makes me look ridiculous. In fact, it's the same one I left Atlantis in. Except, now it's facing the correct direction. And then I'm wearing grey flip flops, which makes no sense. It's snowing outside. But I'm really too tired to rummage in my one bag and get out a pair of sneakers.

Well, I'm going to be here a while, so I might as well get something to drink. If its liquid, I think I might manage to not throw it up. I lumber over to one of the many cafes and restaurants on either side of the long hallway. People push, run, walk, amble, and scurry past me. I'm invisible to them, which I've got to admit is a nice feeling. I'm the head doctor on Atlantis. Everyone always looks to me for help. For once, no one notices me. I think I'm going to be eternally grateful for this fact. Today is a day to mope about. In fact, it's even Sunday, which makes it all the better.

I hate Sundays.

I forgot where I read it, but someone wrote that it was the Sunday afternoons that did them in. All week, people work and deal with things. Saturdays, some still work, and others usually have something to do. But Sundays... Sundays are the days most people seem to have to think. Think about the things that they try to push out of their mind as much as possible at all other times. Therefore, as far as I'm concerned, Sundays are the days to mope.

I swear to whatever deities haven't been proven false yet, the Americans have something against tea. After arguing with the teenager at the counter of the McDonald's I stupidly ended up at, I finally settle for a coffee. The container says 'CAUTION: contents may be hot'. I have the urge to throw it in the trash can just because of that. There's no way humanly possible I'm going to be able to drink this coffee. It's scalding hot. Well, at least I'm not going to be wasting anything good.

So I dejectedly walk over to a circular table in front of some other random restaurant. At the very least, I have something warm to keep in my hands. If I pretend hard enough, I might be able to warm up my feet some, too.

The table is the color manilla. I don't know how they managed to get the color exactly right, but it really is manilla. The _exact_ color of the folders. And so are the three chairs surrounding it. Well, stools. Short stools for a short table. I really don't care at this point and plop down into one of them. My black bag hangs limply from my shoulders, and I hunch over my cup of coffee now on the table. My hands are wrapped around it, and I'm beginning to wonder if they're going to get stuck there forever.

And now I have time to think.

Oh joy.

"Do No Harm"

I'm really starting to hate that phrase. When I took the oath, I thought it would be easy. Do no harm... How more simple can it get? I can not and will not hurt people. And then I go to Atlantis and my sense of morality gets skewed. Totally and utterly skewed. How am I supposed to do no harm to a Wraith that wants to feed on me? Or kill a team mate? A coworker? A friend?

I can go with the excuse that a Wraith doesn't count as a person. But that's being like Mengele. He justified experimenting on Jews and Gypsies because he didn't consider them people. How am I any better if I think that way?

There's another excuse. I can always write off any deaths as 'casualties of war'. A term I'm becoming increasingly familiar with. A term that I would happily spend the rest of my life without hearing again. For some reason, when used with most military higher-ups, it makes it all okay.

I seriously believe that no one in Atlantis figured out why I was acting so weird for the past few days. They all assumed that it was being 'interrogated' by Michael. Really, it was torture. I have no disillusionment about that. I held out for a little while, and then he delved into my mind and it hurt. It hurt a lot. And then I couldn't help it. I told. I cracked.

But I can deal with that. Pain is a familiar and constant companion, whether it be physical or physiological.

It's the faces of those human wraith that haunt me.

They _trusted_ me. They trusted all of us. They really believed we were their saviors. I spent time with them, started to get to know them. Every one of them was so kind, worried, self-conscientious. They were more human than I think I am. They wanted to be praised, to know they were doing a good job.

When Rodney shot at the 'quarantine' camp, he murdered one hundred _children_.

And I know no one else looks at it that way. To every one else, they were Wraith. No matter what I might do to them, they were still the vile monsters that feed on the human race. But they weren't! They were new beings. In a sense, I'd given them a second chance at life. That's what I keep telling myself. That I was trying to help them!

I wanted to help them God-dammit!

I honestly wanted to _help_ them.

Ouch! That burns. I can't believe I was that stupid... I just grasped my coffee cup so hard the cardboard crushed. That's... really hot. I quickly wipe my hands on my jeans and then begin to blow on them. That's enough warming up for one day. I get up and leave my coffee cup and its spilled coffee on the table. Normally, I would be polite and pick it up. But today... no. Today I don't care.

I check my watch, which is set to Atlantis's time zone. 4 AM. Rodney will either be awake or about to pass out. Elizabeth will probably be asleep, along with the rest of the base. Except those who have night shifts. Of course, there might always be John or Ronon pacing the halls. They think I don't notice, but I do. We all have our different ways of dealing with things. Maybe Teyla is in the gym practicing her version of yoga. She tends to do that a lot now.

My hands have stopped hurting, and I decide I really need to try and keep my mind off the wait to get home. It's only been half an hour since I last checked the flight. I sigh rather loudly, and get a few stares from the hordes of people passing me by.

After a few minutes of wandering aimlessly, I end up in a book store. I know exactly where I'm headed, and my feet ignore my desperate internal pleas. I head right for the corner where dictionaries are on display. I pick one up, and flip through it until I find the word that I can't shake out of my subconscious.

em-pa-thy _n._

1. Identification with and understanding of another's situation, feelings, and motives.

2. The attribution of one's own feelings to an object.

Definition number one is what Michael was talking about. I'm not a military type. I don't have a rigid mind. I'm more open. I feel empathy, even towards the Wraith. Even towards the _Wraith_. God, I suddenly feel like puking. I'm not sure if its my hangover, or just the disgust I feel towards myself. Surprisingly, I have no head ache. Just nausea. The alcohol was too weak to make me feel really sick.

My hands are shaking as I close the dictionary with a dusty thud, and place it back in between the many other books on the shelf. I lean forward some and let my head hit the books side by side on the shelf. I just stand there for a moment, not even breathing, leaning against the rules of English. It's nice to, well, relax? I've got to admit, I haven't felt this peaceful for a while.

And that's when I hear it. A question. It's my name, but a question at the same time. Disbelief and surprise mixed into two syllables, from a voice I really would not have minded going the rest of my life without hearing again.

"Beckett?"

I turn around to face the man. He really, truly, hasn't changed. He's wearing kaki slacks, and a blue sweater a lot like mine, except not as poofy. And, yep, he has the same pony tail. And if I'm not mistaken, the exact same pair of glasses, too. Even his brown tennis shoes look vaguely familiar.

"Kavanagh."

Of course I say it with as a weary sigh. I really, really hoped I wouldn't have to see this whining, sniveling excuse of a man any time soon, if ever again. He'd left Atlantis! Well, really, he had been kicked out. But still. Gone... Gone from me and anyone else who had a high security clearance. God, can this day get any worse? What God would do this? I'm already down and out on my luck, and emotional threshold. Do I need karma to come and kick me in the arse some more?

"What're you doing here?"

God, the man really is in shock. I assume he wasn't expecting to see me again, either.

"Vacation," I answer, simply. No point in mentioning I haven't decided if its going to be permanent or not.

"Oh."

Yes, _oh_! Why can't I just be left alone in my misery? It's not true... misery does _not _like company.

"So..." He starts to say. Yes. So. So what? I don't care! God, this can't be a good sign. I'm mentally snarking at the man. I've been around Rodney too much.

"Where are you off to?"

Did he really just ask my destination? Is the man being polite or waiting for an opportunity to mock me? I once saw Rodney bang his head against a wall. I'm still not sure if it was in exasperation or to prove a point. I think I now understand why he did it, though.

"Glasgow. Home."

"Ah. Well."

Here was the proverbial bomb shell. He's about to ask it. I just... I just _know_. So why am I not trying to stop him?

"Want to... get something to eat? All the flights are delayed because of this stupid snowstorm."

Is it just me, or did he put emphasis on the word stupid? I internally sigh. Or maybe I really did sigh. His change in expression seems to indicate that I did. I can say no. Say no. No.

"Alright. Where do you want to go? I've got a little over six hours."

Did his face just... brighten? He really must be lonely.

"I saw a Ruby Tuesdays just around the corner. We could eat there. It's cheap, okay food. Better than the cafeteria in Atlantis."

He's already walking away, melting into the throng of people. I'm following him. I honestly have nothing better to do. And I have to admit... he seems less hostile than I remember him being. I really wonder what time it actually is right now. Before I know it, we're already there. He walks into the restaurant, ignoring the waitress until she approaches him and leads him to a seat. Before I realize it, I'm sitting down in a booth, directly in front of him.

Wow. Of all the things I never thought would happen, this would be one of the ones I didn't even contemplate not happening. After he's shoved up his sleeves to his elbows I finally see that he's wearing a watch . We're having... dinner, apparently. It's almost 6 PM.

I look at my black menu that's laying on the plastic-covered wooden table, but I don't see what's written. The cushioned booth isn't that cushioned, and it feels like I'm sitting on a spring. The din of noise is much less in here, and there's a sort of darkness coming from the fact that all the lights are dimmed with what looks like colored glass lamp shades.

After a few minutes the waitress, dressed in black pants and top, comes and asks us our order. She's taller than me, and has brown hair down to her shoulders. She reminds me of someone I once knew. I quickly glance at the menu and order the cheapest thing on the entree list. Kavanagh orders some burger and describes exactly what he wants on it, down to the last pickle. The waitress takes it in stride, picks up our menus, and leaves. This whole situation feels surreal.

"Look... I'm sorry. I heard what happened."

I tear my gaze away from the speck on the table I had been staring at for the past few minutes and look directly at Kavanagh. He looks earnest.

"What?"

Well, what else can I say? What's he talking about?

"I still help out with Ancient tech that gets brought back from Atlantis. I read all the mission reports. Your latest test with the retro virus... Sorry it didn't work."

I can't even escape it back on Earth. If my demeanor was cold before, it's icy now.

"So am I."

That man doesn't notice anything. He continues on as if I didn't just give him what John has so fondly named 'The Rodney McKay Death Glare'. I'm fairly certain Rodney has taught me well.

"I mean, it must be hard. There were still, what? A hundred humans on the planet? And all of them got wiped out along with the Wraith. They weren't bad anymore. A hundred innocent people that you helped create. It must be torturous to have to see that happen!"

The man is talking with a passion that I didn't know he possessed. I, am honestly, speechless. Kavanagh-The-Ass is able to figure out exactly what I think and feel, when not even my closest friends realized just what was wrong with me. They all assumed it was giving up the back-up plan. But this... this egocentric, selfish _bastard_ sees exactly what's wrong!

It takes me a moment to realize that he's expecting me to speak next. It takes me another moment to realize I'm not talking, and my mouth is hanging open some. I promptly close it.

"Yeah. Torturous is one way of putting it."

I think my voice sounds awe-struck. Yet again, Kavanagh doesn't notice.

"I mean, I understand why Sheppard had to give the order, and of course McKay had to carry it out, but still. That... sucks. All your hard work, first proven wrong, and then destroyed. And people, not Wraiths any more, but people killed in the process."

"Yes! And no one is willing to accept the fact that after their memories are gone, they aren't Wraith anymore! It's like... giving them a new life. But no one, not even Elizabeth, was convinced. There were at least a hundred that showed no signs of remembering, and were... were _kind_. They wanted to help me, to learn, to help each other. They were excited at the prospect of going places, doing things, as _humans_."

Kavanagh just looks at me for a moment, and I swear there's a bit of a gleam in his eye. It's like he was trying to get me to open up. It's not a malicious gleam, but still unnerving. This is the most I've talked for days, and it feels refreshing. Have I found... someone who agrees with me? I don't think a soul on Atlantis did, not even the other doctors and scientists who were working on the retro virus with me. They only saw it as a way to defeat the Wraith.

"You're right. Heh. I can see why you needed a vacation. Just to get away from it all. I've heard Scotland is a nice place. Is it?"

The change in the subject surprises me slightly, but I don't mind going with it. The whole point of the vacation was to not think about the retro virus, or Atlantis.

"Beautiful. No other place in any world I'd rather live. Except Atlantis, of course, but even then. You should visit there some time. Most tourists are surprised as to just how friendly we are."

"Yeah... you always were well loved by those on Atlantis. The nurses really liked you, too. And your 'Scottish brogue'."

Why did I have to be taking a sip of water right then? After coughing a few times, I can finally breath again. I look at Kavanagh and I think he's laughing to himself. But instantly my mind goes back to another part of what he said.

"Were?"

Kavanagh looks up at the ceiling, and then his head snaps back down, his pony tail eerily bobbing some. His eyebrows are raised, and his voice is condescending as he stares straight at me.

"It's so easy to see, Carson. You have the demeanor of someone who's given up."

Just at that moment, the waitress comes back with our food. She puts Kavanagh's plate down first, and then my bowl. Apparently, I ordered... a gumbo? I stare at the shrimp bobbing up and down in the thick, reddish water, and the nausea comes back a little. Kavanagh has already taken the bun off his burger and is peeling some onions out of the cheese.

"Can you believe that? I specifically said 'no onions' and they slather them on! Hmph. No one listens."

I dumbly nod my head. My lack of sleep is catching up with me again. I look away from the gumbo, and stare at a very random painting on the wall to the right of me. It's just a few different colored squares, but all the colors seem to fit the red, yellow, and brown haze those glass lamp shades cast all over the place. I think I must have drifted off for a moment with my eyes open, because when I look back at Kavanagh most of his burger is already gone. Well, either that or he eats faster than I thought was possible.

"Hey, waitress!" He yells at the woman with brown hair all the way across the room. "Check please!"

I look back at my gumbo, and all the shrimp have sunk to the bottom. Well.

The waitress comes back, and before I can even fumble for my wallet, Kavanagh has already taken out enough money for both of our meals and handed it to the woman.

"Thanks..." I mutter rather darkly. God, can this day get any weirder? I must be in an episode of the Twilight Zone. Kavanagh... paying for something? Paying for _my_ dinner? I shake my head a little. After a few more minutes of an odd silence she comes back with a receipt and hands it to Kavanagh. A few more dollar bills go under his empty water glass as a tip. He doesn't talk again until she walks away to some other customers.

"Beckett, when I left Atlantis, I... thought."

I can't help it and snort a little in laughter. I know the man is a scientist, but him and thinking just don't mix in my mind.

"I deserved every snide remark, every blatant piece of disrespect. Let's face it, I'm a bastard."

We're making eye contact, and there's something about his gaze that really does seem different than when he was in Atlantis. He just seems, well, _better_.

"Beckett, we all screw up. You've screwed up more than most. But you still have a chance to fix it. It's not over. Right now, the man I see is not the man that told me to shut the hell up after I told you my foot was broken."

I ignore the tug of a humorous memory, and instead listen to what he's saying for what I think is the first time in my life.

"You're broken. You look broken, and you are. The proverbial last straw has been placed on the camel's back, and now the back is broken. But you're a doctor. You know better than most that wounds heal."

Is the man giving me... a pep talk?

"Carson."

Hearing him use my first name makes the hair raise on the back of my neck. It feels so odd. I think it must be because Michael used my first name almost in the exact same tone. A sort of insistence, a way of telling me, with only his voice, that he wants me to listen.

"Go back to Atlantis. You can't give up. Otherwise you will fail every person you ever hurt by making a mistake."

Kavanagh spreads his hands, palm down, onto the table. He looks down at the table, as if he's trying to think of something else to say, or trying to say something that's painful to voice out loud. There's a nagging feeling in the back of my mind. At his last physical... something didn't look right in a scan. I told him to check it out once he got back to Earth? Yeah, I think he was the one.

He looks directly at me, now, and I see an emotion I never expected to see in Kavanagh. Humbleness.

"I have terminal cancer."

He lets the words hang in the air a moment before continuing.

"A discovery you made, about the ATA gene, is going to save my life. That's where I'm flying to, that's why I'm in this airport right now. In three days I'm getting a surgery done that's only possible because of you. I'm not going to die, even though modern medicine says I should. Thank you."

He says each word with care, as if he's been planning what to say for a long time. I sit here, stunned. I save peoples' lives every day. I'm thanked by them every day. But nothing ever like this. Nothing ever so earnestly and with such raw, but at the same time, controlled emotion.

Kavanagh stands up. What more can he say to me? He walks away, and quickly disappears into the crowd of people... Which has gotten thicker? If it's still snowing, then that means more and more flights are going to be delayed. The airport is going to become even more crowded. More stuck people. I have the distinct impression I'm going to have to sleep on a bench tonight.

I pick up my half full glass of water, and swirl it around a little with a small movement of my wrist. The ice moves and makes a satisfying chink sound.

"Yeah," I say to myself. "Two weeks vacation should be just enough."


End file.
